


I love you in this way (because I do not know any other way of loving but this)

by Roccolinde



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: A dinner at Riverrun sends subtle ripples through Jaime and Brienne's lives.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 82
Kudos: 219
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange Stocking Stuffers 2020





	1. Riverrun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cardinalgirl75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalgirl75/gifts), [catherineflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/gifts), [frecklesfreckles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklesfreckles/gifts).



> So, cardinalgirl75 and frecklesfreckles both requested the Secret Relationship, and catherineflowers requested "Flawed human beings with an imperfect relationship struggling to make things work", and somehow what came out was a canon divergence from the red tent scene that I hope will be done within the week and hit those beats. It's four chapters, but short ones. Probably. Mostly. This could also go out to those who requested a marriage of convenience, if that's your jam.
> 
> Title is from the Pablo Neruda's [Love Sonnets XVII](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49236/one-hundred-love-sonnets-xvii)

There is a village on the road to Riverrun, and when they stop for a meal at the small inn they are told they are less than an hour’s ride from the Lannister encampment that surrounds the castle. It is late afternoon, and Brienne eyes the descending sun with a suspicious gaze; it will be better to continue their journey and make camp somewhere en route, and arrive early on the morrow rather than spend coin on rooms—the weather is fine, and a half hour’s ride now will save them an hour or more come morning. So she thanks the innkeep and they ride on, but before they can find a place to make camp they cross paths with a group of Lannister scouts, who demand they halt and question them thoroughly. It is less than ideal, but Brienne casts a small look to Podrick and tries not to sigh.

“We seek Ser Jaime Lannister,” she says, and gestures to the sword at her waist. Even in the long purples of early evening its lion head pommel is evident. “I have come to return his sword.”

The men are not unfriendly as they escort them into the camp, despite the fact they have arrived from a northern route, and Brienne and Podrick are taken to the commander’s tent to await his return. There is a guard on watch outside, and the flap is left parted so there is no opportunity for subterfuge even if Brienne were so inclined. Instead she stands firmly in the centre of the tent as Pod does his best to follow suit, but he is restless.

“Ask the guards if they will allow you to set up camp at the edge of the army,” she says. “It will do you more good than standing here.”

Her words are sharper than she intends, but Podrick merely smiles at her, accustomed as he is to her taciturn nature.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Podrick, I have told you before—”

“I see your squire survived your teachings,” drawls a sharp, amused voice from the entry to the tent, and Brienne hurriedly turns to see Ser Jaime has returned. “Out, boy.” 

Podrick bows and makes his escape. Brienne briefly considers fleeing with him, but she is here for a reason and she will see it through. 

Jaime barely spares her a glance before stepping further in, close to the table where some maps lay. “I told you he had a better chance out of King’s Landing.”

“Ser Jaime.” She bows slightly.

“Now, now, Lady Brienne, there’s no need for that between friends.” He pulls his glove from his hand with a careful tug of his teeth, and then taps his finger on the tabletop. “I do hope you have not availed yourself to sensitive information.”

“Ser Jaime, I would not—”

He laughs, the corner of his eyes crinkling when he looks at her.

“No, I suppose you would not. You’re as honest as you are stubborn.”

“Ser—”

“I’m sure you did not come here to match wits, my lady. Speak quickly.”

“I would if you would _let me speak_ ,” she countered brusquely. “I have been sent by Lady Sansa Stark to treat with the Blackfish, in the hopes he will aid his niece in retaking Winterfell from the Boltons.”

Jaime’s laugh is bitter this time, and he throws himself into a nearby chair with a laconic air that even Brienne is certain is false.

“You want me to allow you to cross siege lines to—” he pauses, brow furrowing. “How is Sansa Stark even requesting anything?”

“She escaped Bolton imprisonment and I was able to help her journey to—”

“No,” Jaime says, with a raise of his hand. “The less I know of her location, the better. My sister would still have her head for her role in poisoning the King—”

“She did no such thing!” Brienne protests. 

He stares at her as if Brienne has _grown_ a head, but then looks away and stands.

“I’m impressed you managed to find her,” he says. “And alive.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Brienne says defensively, resisting the urge to fold her arms across her chest. In not one of the seven hells will she show weakness in front of Ser Jaime, who had always treated—not _kindly_ , but with some semblance of respect since… well, she will not show weakness.

“If she was truly so innocent in the conniving, I’m surprised she lived long enough to be rescued.”

“I did not _rescue_ her. She escaped by her own wits, and— That is not the point. I must speak with the Blackfish.”

“And so you come to me?”

She gives a disgusted sigh. “Well, I thought you reasonable. This siege is not right, not _honorable_ , you must see that.”

“They are rebels.”

“They are rebels for trying to take their home back?”

He shrugs. “It is no longer theirs.”

“Ser Jaime—”

“Oh, why quarrel?” he cuts through. “You have your allegiances and I have mine, and I can no more imagine you turning against them than I can imagine turning against my family. Still, I am proud of you.” 

He sighs, and Brienne is surprised to realise that he seems healthier than she had last seen him—her time in King’s Landing had not been quite enough to shed the deeper grooves of his imprisonment and maiming—but much older. 

“I did nothing.”

“Lady Brienne, you are the most…” he glances towards the open tent flap, and stalks over to close it. Then he moves towards her, stopping only a few steps away. “You have fulfilled your oaths to Catelyn Stark, against the odds. You have come to my camp, so certain you are in the right that you harangue me for following my orders—”

“They are unfair orders!”

“It is the Freys’ castle! Issued by royal decree. I do not know what you expect me to say. _Why yes, Lady Brienne, you are absolutely correct, let me just shift off my camp of men and ignore orders, and perhaps I can assist an enemy of the Crown while I do._ ” 

She tilts her chin up, meets his eyes. “So you won’t help me?” 

“I didn’t—” he rubs a hand across his mouth. “I did not say that. The Blackfish is a nuisance. If you can convince him to turn his time to a less futile cause, you’re welcome to him.”

“And you’ll allow the Tully army safe passage north?”

“Yes.”

“I need your word.”

He scoffs. “My word is worth the paper it is written upon.”

She hates how soft her voice is when she says, “Not to me.”

Jaime watches her for a long, long moment and she wishes that she did not feel quite so _seen_. Finally he shakes his head.

“Stay for dinner.”

“What?”

“You cannot go now, it is near nightfall. You may enter—”

“And Podrick.”

“You _and_ Podrick may enter tomorrow morning. It will give you the day to persuade the old goat, though I doubt you can. So you may as well dine with me tonight, rather than chew on whatever dried rations you have in your saddlebags.”

He is not wrong, and Brienne is not _so_ prideful as to offend their host. After a moment, brief though it stretches between them, she nods her head.

“Very well. And Podrick will join?”

Podrick does _not_ join—when Brienne slips from the tent to fetch him, she finds that he has made their camp as she had asked and has disappeared with Ser Bronn Blackwater. Jaime laughs when she tells him.

“He’ll be alright,” he assures her. “Bronn will find them a couple of willing girls and they’ll stumble back into camp before dawn.”

Brienne purses her lips. “I should hope not.”

“No, I suppose that would be too unknightly for _your_ squire,” he replies, and she thinks he is laughing at her, but gently.

The thought niggles at her defenses as she sits for dinner, a meal of game hen and root vegetables that is fitting for a commander and his guest, but not so far above the hearty stews she sees throughout the camp. She intends to decline the wine, but the bird is dry and it seems too much trouble to bother his men to fetch ale. It is not a strong wine, in any case, and she drinks it carefully. Jaime is a loquacious host, steering the conversation far away from politics or sieges and demanding little from her but her attention, and the truth is that it is one of the most pleasant meals she can recall. They are on opposing sides, she knows this, but he will not harm her.

It is well into night when they are done, and she is far too relaxed as she rises from the table. He follows, escorting her towards the tent door, looking impossibly handsome. She must—she must remember that however gracious he has been, she has come for a purpose. She reaches for her swordbelt, a strange grief slicing through her, but she will do this too. 

Jaime arches one eyebrow when she extends the sword, and she firms her resolve. She must.

“You gave it to me for a purpose. I've achieved that purpose.”

His smile is too gentle. “It was a gift, Lady Brienne,” he says, his head tilting. “It’s yours. It will always be yours.”

She cannot look away. Moves closer, until the few steps between them is only one.

“Ser Jaime—”

He kisses her. It is her first kiss. It is as gentle and careful as his words, and over too soon. Her hands still hold Oathkeeper between them.

“Ser Jaime…” she begins again, but he is stepping away. They are on opposing sides. She must remember this. “Should I fail to persuade the Blackfish to surrender and if you attack the castle, honor compels me to fight for Sansa's kin.”

It is not what she intends to say, but it is for the best. There is still that gentle amusement in his eyes.

“Of course it does.”

Perhaps he does not understand. “To fight _you_.” 

“Let us hope it doesn't come to that,” he says softly.

She ducks her head, unable to bear the weight of his gentleness, and exits the tent. They are on opposing sides of this war, as they have been for much of their acquaintance, even when united by a shared vow. That will not change. It cannot change. His duty is to family, and though she spares no love for Cersei, it is not so simple as that—there is a child upon that precarious throne, Jaime's _son_ , and as loyal as she is to Lady Sansa, Brienne knows there is nothing more hateful than failing to protect those you love. And Jaime had capitulated quickly enough, though it was a risky choice; perhaps _this_ is the most honorable path from where he stands. Perhaps this is all they will ever be. 

*

In the months after Winterfell is retaken, a handful of ravens arrive for Brienne. Never from King's Landing and never signed, and the words on parchment do not matter—what they mean is that he lives, and thinks of her still.


	2. The Dragonpit

He does not expect Brienne to arrive with the Targaryen girl, and as he enters the Dragonpit behind Cersei it takes all his control not to react to her presence. Cersei will notice, he knows she will, and his position is already precarious—his sweet sister has always been fire, but he had tended to her, stoking or banking as needed, directing the flames as best he could. She burns more brightly now, ever since the Sept of Baelor, until the heat sears and chokes him if he comes too close. 

They have not been together since his time in Riverrun. Since his kiss with Brienne. He tries not to think of it. Tries not to wonder whether she _knows_ , whether she could read his betrayal on his face, and if she can whether she can fathom his lack of regret. 

The chained undead man crawling and grasping at the sand distracts him, for a time, but it cannot last—soon enough Cersei rises, dismissive, and Jaime must follow her. Must make her see sense, must not reveal his weakness, must keep her from burning the whole world down.

Brienne does not allow it, stalking after him and grasping his arm, forcing him to look at her, _fuck loyalty_ hanging between them.. She is glorious in her anger, and he remembers the slight dryness of her lips, the way her chin had trembled when she told him honour would compel her to fight and she would not shy away. He feels Cersei’s gaze on them though, and pulls away. Honour compels this as much as anything. 

He does not say goodbye. 

In the quiet of empty chambers, Cersei will not bend. Not to his pleas, his appeals to her own greed. Not to Tyrion’s reasoning and persuasion. He wishes to believe she might be convinced, if there was time, but there is not. After the second day of futile arguments, he knows what he must do; after retiring for the night, he dons his most nondescript clothes and cloak and slips from the Red Keep to head towards the northern camp. 

It takes very little effort to pass through the streets and escape the walls of the city. He is intercepted by a guard on the edge of the camp, who does not look around to see if Jaime is unaccompanied before seizing him and taking him towards the tent near its centre. It is clearly the command tent, and he wonders whether it is Daenerys or Jon Snow who sleeps on the cot in the corner. Brienne is present, thankfully—he would not continue until she was—but she does not react to his presence.

“Come to treat with us, brother?” Tyrion asks, smug.

Jaime does not respond, merely shrugs off the guard’s grip and strides towards the table in the centre of the tent. “I need a map.”

“Ser Jaime—” objects Snow.

“Now.”

It is Brienne who moves, pulling a map from a chest and spreading it before him. She does not meet his eyes as she does.

He points to a half dozen small castles or forts not far from the King’s Road. “There are Lannister men with trustworthy commanders garrisoned in all these places. Perhaps a thousand total. The bulk of our army is in King’s Landing, and I’ve no way to get them out, but these… I’ve brought with me a letter of command, if we can get a Lannister to bear it for me.”

“We have Tyrion—” Snow begins, but Tyrion waves him silent.

“No, I am known to be with the enemy. And they will not accept a stranger without the name.” Tyrion tilts his head in consideration. “A trusted cousin?” 

“Cersei would notice any of my commanders gone,” Jaime says. 

“One of their wives, then.”

Jaime shakes his head, and Tyrion thinks for a moment, then begins to laugh. “You cannot—”

“Yes.”

“Seven hells, Jaime. Are you going to pluck a random serving wench from the city for this scheme?”

He lifts his eyes to see that Brienne is watching him, face blank.

“You wouldn’t trust them if I did,” he says. “Lady Brienne…”

He had thought her slow, once. Plodding and dull, none of that Lannister quicksilver. He thinks now she is merely steady, silent on the surface, and all the more dangerous for it.

“You wish me to pretend to be your wife?” she asks.

He grins. “I would ask you in earnest, but I do not think you would have me.”

She leans against the table, her long fingers splayed as she surveys the map. Reaches out to trace routes. Looks towards Jon Snow and the Targaryen queen. 

“I can carry the message to the garrisons Ser Jaime mentions and rejoin you before you reach the Neck, but they could not mobilise fast enough to stop us if this was a ruse.”

As expressions of trust go, he has had better. 

Daenerys speaks for the first time, and Jaime is surprised by how young she sounds. “You expect me to trust _Jaime Lannister_? Would he not just as happily slit our throats tonight and be done with it?”

He doesn’t even notice Brienne move, but she angles herself between Jaime and the queen, shakes her head. “Lady Sansa herself trusted Ser Jaime to treat me honourably when I was sent to treat with him at Riverrun, Your Grace. He is a man of honour.”

“He is a man of family, Lady Brienne.”

Brienne nods slightly, her shoulders rising as she breathes. “He is, Your Grace. I believe that is why...” She turns to him, and he cannot read the softness in her eyes or the set of her mouth. Or perhaps he can, but dares not. “If it would please Your Grace, we will secure his loyalty this very night.”

The queen stares for too long a moment, and it is only years of experience that keeps Jaime from leaping forward and taking it back, swearing anything at all if only they would not harm Brienne, Brienne who still stands between him and those who would see him dead and does not waver.

“Very well,” Daenerys eventually says, and looks to Tyrion and Brienne both. “But his betrayal is yours, and will be treated so.”

*

The sept is quiet, lit only by candles and moonlight. The septon is still in his sleep robe, and he blinks blearily at the assembled company. But this is not the first marriage made in haste, though usually it is young women and their disreputable suitors, or ones who have found themselves in the family way.

He knows not what to make of the company before him—a dwarf, a young woman with pale hair and the bearing of royalty, a tall woman wrapped in armour and cloak both, and a man who remains hooded until the last moment. He does not question how the Queen’s brother has come to this small sept outside of the city, or ask his purpose. Many of the prayers are shortened or forgotten in the haste, and it is only when the bride kisses the groom, her hands curling around his hips to pull him close, that he realises that the marriage is for the rarest reason of all—love.


	3. Camp

They are given a tent for the night, and when they return from the sept, they are left alone there. It is as much a display of trust as either of them can imagine. Brienne changes into loose sleep clothes, as much for something to do with the silence that stretches between them as anything else. When she is done, she emerges from behind the screen, and wipes her sweaty palm against her thigh. 

Jaime stands in the middle of the tent, his eyes on the roof of the tent. 

“This is not how I imagined asking you,” he says, laughing slightly. 

“You had…” 

She _blushes_ , absurd though it may be. Highborn marriages come with negotiations, not fantasies and closely-held wishes. Perhaps there was… fondness, between them, but it was still a convenience, the securing of an alliance. And yet...

“Should I not have, Lady Brienne?”

She shakes her head rather than answer. “You will return to the Keep?”

It is only a wish to know when they will part again, nothing more. No lingering desire to call him husband or draw him close, no curiosity of shared pleasure and how it compares to stolen, furtive moments beneath furs. 

“I had thought….” 

She kisses him this time, only the memory of a single kiss, moons gone, to guide her. She is too eager, then not eager enough. Foreheads bump. Horrified laughter spills from her lips, and she would be ashamed if he did not laugh as well, and follow her lead. 

The sweetness of coming together is unexpected.. From what she had seen, what she had heard, what she had felt alone… she had imagined it quick and harsh and good, like the rush of a fight. Perhaps it can be. But this time it is more like a warm bath after returning home, and she sinks into it. 

It is still hours til dawn when he slides from her bed, and she follows long enough to dress. It feels strange, to be naked. To be clothed. 

“Ride with the Starks as far as you can,” he says quietly as he pulls on his boots, his brow furrowed, “then make as if you have received word from your father and must head to Tarth. If Cersei has eyes within the camp—”

“I do not think—”

“ _Please_.”

He sounds so earnest that she nods. “Very well.”

“And do not use your name unless—”

“Unless I must,” Brienne says. They have discussed this, planned it out as strategy; only those at the wedding need ever know the truth before she reaches Lannister troops. “The fewer people know, the longer it will take for Cersei to hear of it.”

“And the more time I will have to convince her to send the rest of the army north.”

An echo of hope still clings to his words.

Brienne sighs. “If you cannot?”

“Then I will keep trying.”

“Jaime…” His name tastes strange on her tongue, stripped of all its barriers. 

“If I cannot—” he begins, and runs his hand over his mouth. “If I cannot, I will order the Lannister men to stand down when your dragon queen returns.”

“If,” Brienne says, ever practical. “It might be the undead who triumph.”

Jaime crosses the small tent, slides his hand around the nape of her neck and pulls her close. “ _When_ ,” he repeats, his forehead pressed against hers. “Do not ask me to consider otherwise.”

She gives a shaky laugh, curls her hands into the fabric of his tunic as if to hold him close for one final moment. “When, then, my husband. I will see you again.” 

*

She keeps her hood raised when she arrives at the first garrison, speaks low and as little as possible. The scroll she bears with a Lannister seal gains her access to the commander’s solar, and when the soldiers who had escorted her have left, the man rises from his seat. He is tall and rangy, with a smile that reminds her so much of Jaime that she understands why he had sent her here.

“You come with news?” the man asks, gesturing to the parchment in her right hand.

She raises her left, and lowers her hood. If the man is surprised to see a woman beneath the cloak, he hides it well. She breathes deep and slow, and meets his eyes. 

“I am Lady Brienne Lannister,” she says, “and I come with orders.”


	4. Winterfell

Days become weeks, and Cersei cannot be moved. He stays through the news of the Golden Company. Stays through her barbed comments about the hulking woman who had clearly come to make the Targaryen usurper seem prettier in comparison. He stays long after he wishes to, convinced that he can still make Cersei see reason, and if not reason… He stays, because he will save her if he can, and because he knows every man he can muster should be at Winterfell before the undead arrive. This is what he must do, and so he stays.

The days come shorter and shorter, even here in the south, and he knows there is very little time left. A moon, perhaps a little more, if the night continues to creep in the same way. Not near enough time to move an army. 

He calls his best commanders still in King’s Landing, and hopes they are more loyal to him than the Queen. It is a risk, but he can no longer do otherwise. He tells them what little he can—there is a threat in the North, more than a dragon queen or a bastard king. That he will ride towards it, and if he returns it will be as an enemy. He asks that they not take arms against Daenerys Targaryen, but he cannot command their conscience. They do not ask why he goes, though it is clear that one man will make no difference; he does not tell him that if this is to be the end, the true end, he would be nowhere else. Glory and renown or death and irrelevance, there is _love_ there. This is what he must do.

He leaves much as he had done the night he’d betrayed Cersei for his own morality—no confrontation, no sense this is the final rift between them. Merely clothes meant to hide his identity, some coins in a purse and wrapped bread and cheese, a horse taken from the stables and the stablehand and guard at the gate both slipped a gold dragon and told he is heading towards Dorne. 

He rides until the sun is at its zenith, breaks for a meal, rides more. Day after day, with little variation, little mind to anything but the road ahead. The days grow shorter, faster now; by the time he arrives at Winterfell, there are only a few hours of light in the day and he is not sure if the sun fully rises. He has not seen it, at least, not for a sennight or more. 

Brienne is outside the walls when he arrives, directing the building of defenses and running men through drill at the same time, a solid pillar of blue and brown even at a distance. He has arrived in time, the little niggling voice that he might not finally silenced, and he urges his horse a little faster. 

She is amongst the first to see him, and she calls a halt to her drills before striding towards him. When she draws near he sees the furrow in her brow.

“Ser Jaime,” she greets him. “You do not bring an army?”

He shakes his head. “We will speak of it later. The others though, they are here?”

Brienne nods. “There were a few japes at your expense, when they thought I did not hear, but they did not hesitate to follow your orders.”

She seems _proud_ of him, though she was the one to have done it. Perhaps, for the first time since they have met, it amounts to the same thing. The same loyalties, the same duties. If this is to be the end, he would not do anything else. 

*

Other men follow him North. Not that many, in truth, but a handful arrive each day. Deserters. Traitors. They wear the names with pride. And when the undead come, they fight the same as any other man. It is the best any of them can do.


End file.
